This new conditioner is nice. It smells like cotton and perfume. Curls splay loose and fuzzy across his shoulders, soft from the warmth of being pressed to the pillow for the whole nap.
A hand skims across the ridges of his back. Only Emory’s familiar fingertips get to trace the thick ridges and valleys of layered scars there. When a brush across the longest, widest scar elicits a shudder and a whine of complaint, Emory scratches there. Long gentle swipes of short nails scratch at the deep uncomfortable itch until Lux finally melts again.
“Come here, Curls.” Lux shifts his hips back and hums happily when he’s swept closer to curl against his boyfriend, a bunched up blanket between them.
They’re close, warm, safe. Been safe for a long time.
Lux stretches, arms flying wide and back arching. A long groan is wrung from his throat and his eyes squeeze shut, sleepy tension melting away. Emory’s hand slipping under his upper arm to wrap around his shoulder doesn’t startle him at all. Diligent fingers press at knotted muscles and Lux whines, ending his stretch and falling still to allow the painful massage. It always feels so much better after the - after it stops -
It’s too painful. Eyes screwing shut tighter, fingers flexing sharply, Lux hisses out a sharp breath and waits for Emory to notice his reaction. He’ll stop instantly.
Knuckles dig in harder against joints that were permanently damaged years ago. Lux finally lets out a whine and twists uncomfortably, blinking his eyes open and twisting his head to see his boyfriend.
“Em? It, it, I don’t, it’s a little…”
Beautiful dark eyes glint at him. “A little…?”
He’s not understanding, somehow. Lux licks his lips and tries to find the words to explain kindly, to spare Emory the sharp heartache of causing him pain. “A li-ittle, um, it, doesn’t f-feel right, not your fault, I, I think it’s, mmh, muscles locked up, bad…”
Usually a single stutter is enough to make Emory hesitate and offer to back away. It’s not working now, though. Lux must - he must be doing it wrong somehow. Not communicating right. He should be clearer. Emory will be glad that he asked for what he needed.
“Em, um, I need, I need, I n-need, hnn!” Blue eyes fly wide and his back arches once more as fire erupts in his shoulder. It’s not - it can’t be happening. Emory’s fingers tighten their grip around the freshly popped joint, and Lux’s throat squeezes out a mewling sound before he can even understand that he’s being hurt.
“You need…?” Guides Emory in a warm, loving tone. Lux’s bare feet kick the blankets away and scramble across the bed as he tries to escape the unbearable grip on his shoulder which is creaking under Emory’s slowly flexing hands.
“I n-need, I, I, need, please!” This can’t be happening, but it is, somehow. A nightmare, maybe. Or mind magic, or - please, it must be a hallucination or trick, not his real boyfriend really mind controlled. And not… not Emory just… wanting to hurt him. Skin a sickly pale shade and fingers clawing into the mattress, Lux digs the back of his head into Emory’s chest and keens desperately.
The pop of the ball of his shoulder leaving its socket must be something he imagines as that new agony is ignited. There’s no way he could hear that, not with the blood rushing in his ears the way it is. But he imagines the sickening sound anyway. Only when he hears the soft dry sobs of his scream dying out, does he realize that he was screaming at all.
“Does that hurt, honey?” Comes the tender voice of the man he loves so much, right at the shell of his ear. Lux isn’t pinned, isn’t chained, there’s no gun or magic to his head. Still, the grip that shifts to wrap around his elbow keeps him in place with the imagined threat of this getting much, much worse somehow.
“Please…” Restless but not daring to struggle, Lux tries to swallow the sobs that threaten to catch in his throat and suffocate him. “I want… nnh, normal Emory. Safe. Don’t, I, I…” A self-interrupting sob-breath jolts his chest. “I want to wake up.”
The crunch of his elbow being snapped with sheer strength sends him arching up so sharply that Lux knocks his head back against Emory’s chin. It’s just enough to stun the hands off of his broken arm, and the warlock finally struggles, crawling with the awkward desperation of a mouse that’s finally wriggled free from a trap.
“Not so fast, baby,” Chides Emory, coolly using one of the petnames that send a chill of disgust racing up Lux’s spine. He crashes to the floor and throws himself to the bedroom door, tossing up fear-weakened magic to block the doorway behind him and lock the door shut.
There is not banging on the wood, no yelling. It’s eerily silent in there as Lux stumbles out of the house, muffling heartbroken weeping behind a sweaty palm.
